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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213214">Special Affair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/soup_pulp/pseuds/soup_pulp'>soup_pulp</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Durarara!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Infidelity, Izuo - Freeform, Jealousy, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Strained Relationships, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, fem!Shizuo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:35:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,690</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213214</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/soup_pulp/pseuds/soup_pulp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Marrying her high school sweetheart is a relationship that most people love and adore, but her marriage with Tom has been going down the drain for longer than a while now. Issues with infidelity, miscommunication, and spousal neglect is what causes their love to be constantly blown out but they decide to try again one last time to make this relationship work by moving back to Ikebukuro, their hometown where their relationship first began.</p><p>Nothing seems to have changed though despite their promises to do better. But the devious stranger who sends shivers down her spine—in a bad way—makes himself a regular at the bar during her nightshift and seems to have something else in mind for her.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Heiwajima Shizuo/Orihara Izaya, Heiwajima Shizuo/Tanaka Tom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Special Affair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Based on this <a href="https://drrrkink.livejournal.com/4952.html?thread=16533848#t16533848">kinkmeme prompt</a> that I read several years ago and I never stopped thinking about writing something for it ever since. Also, this is mostly smut so I can’t say that the plot I’m wrapping around it will make sense, so please bear that in mind.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The night of the summer solstice is one of his favorite nights by far, even if it is the shortest night of the year. Like cities, humans come to life at night; the pure soul of humanity—shining as bright as the city lights and shimmering like the iridescent glitter on Christmas ornaments—come out to play. His humans display themselves in the open with their wanton desires, revealing who they are when they think they’re hidden from the public eye. And who is he, Izaya Orihara, the self-proclaimed lover of all humans and humanity itself, to place such unjust scorn and shame when he loves every one of them as they are?</p><p>To be clear, Izaya doesn’t think of himself as a god, per se, but he does sometimes feel as if he could be some sort of deity—a type of omniscient, capricious being that has fallen from the cool embrace of the heavens to watch over his beloved, twisted beings that hold his affections up close.</p><p>But if he were to be a god, then all the districts of Tokyo in where he reigns would be his. And there isn’t a moment where any human of remote interest can escape his eyes as he’s almost sure that he knows almost every human within this large territory that he’s claimed as his own. Whether it be the Yakuza that dwell in the depths of Ikebukuro’s belly, to the rowdy high school kids that are realizing the power they have as they begin gang wars, to every human in-between. Humans are so interesting, and it would be impossible to love only one out of the many that exist.</p><p>Izaya traipses along the busy streets of downtown Ikebukuro. The heels of his shoes tap in a staccato rhythm due to the slight skip in his gait. With his off-beat humming, he looks to and fro at the busy commotion of people walking all around him. Of course, he’s made sure that his stealing glances will be quick and undetectable. He doesn’t want the behaviors of his lovely humans to contort if they feel any sort of sensation of being watched. This causes them to stiffen and become too aware of what they’re doing due to being observed, even if the logical part of their mind tells them to pay no heed to that gut instinct. The Hawthorne effect is a wonderfully troublesome thing. And as much as it is a delight to observe humans reacting to the confirmation of being watched, even if they didn’t know <em>who</em> is watching and <em>where</em> the watcher is, tonight is the off-chance that he wants to be nothing but a silent, invisible spectator.</p><p>Like a dowsing rod, his eyes are locked on target to search for anything interesting. The night continues to wane, sleep tugging the corner of his eyes as if begging to close for a slumber that he doesn’t want or need. How can he sleep at a time like this? He’d tear his hair out if he’d decided to go back home now, and then find out a month later that he’d missed out on something fascinating that was brewing behind his back. Even though every night is similar to the one before and after it, there is a reason why the summer solstice—one of his favorite nights to observe humans—is one out of the many nights that he will refuse to compromise with his sleep schedule. Not only is it the start to where the mild temperatures of spring turn into summer, but it also carries the change of temperament in emotions such as a flurry of confusion, anger, and everything in-between. But most of all, it is the start of renewal in people’s lives, whether they notice it or not.</p><p>Spending more than half a day at this point, Izaya hasn’t found anything that could be of interest by listening his way down any path—both physically and digitally through both famous and insignificant online forums—that offer itself up with dangerous, sometimes salacious and incriminating, gossip that he will pocket for later if the interest for it remains. But he is beginning to find himself thrown into a loop as his emotions flip-flop between a mixture of mild surprise, heavy disappointment, and simmering anticipation. Even though he doesn’t discriminate or favor one human over another, Izaya still can’t keep his disappointment at bay when every little eye-catching speck of humanity leads him down to a mundane residential area.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What Izaya didn’t know before this coincidental meeting—some wouldn’t call this a meeting, but Izaya would beg to differ and say that one didn’t have to encounter the other for it to be one—was that he would be coming across a diamond in the rough. A particularly unpolished diamond that would continue to pique and snag his attention for the oncoming year and the years after that. Not unlike a magpie, his fondness for searching for something that would gleam even in the dark would eventually lead him to find a lost and unpolished Swarovski crystal in the midst of a garbage dump. Its price tag was forgotten and thrown away, left to be covered in rot and mold, but Izaya was different. Picking, prodding, provoking, and polishing; he’d bring back the sparkle in this gem and claim it for himself, even if the original holder would come back to claim the prize with wrinkled and torn receipts. But for now…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Izaya nearly laughs—the feeling of <em>something</em> rides high in his chest, the emotion sitting behind his teeth and lips, threatening to rush out in a flurry as his grin turns into a stretched-out, full-blown smile that creates an ache in the muscles of his cheeks—as he continues to walk down the avenue. There isn’t any neighborhood, restaurant, back-alley, or hidden hideaways in Tokyo that he doesn’t know; he knows all of Tokyo like the back of his hand. But Izaya’s never once thought that he would find himself in a suburban neighborhood just from the whim of looking around; haunted by heavy boredom that pushes his anticipation to find <em>something</em> into desperation to find <em>anything</em> to make his night. Not that he hasn’t found enough things interesting to catch his eye.</p><p>The apartments he passes by are a bit on the high-end for a middle-class neighborhood. Except this courtyard is quite small. Nothing but trees and a couple of benches and tables mashed together until it looks nothing more than a perfect hideaway in comparison to most apartment courtyards that Izaya has seen.</p><p>And that’s when he sees her.</p><p>She sits on the bench furthest away with one hand gripping tight to an orange cellphone pressed against her ear while the other holds a lit cigarette. Her brows are furrowed, lips pulled into a thin line as she crooks her head closer to her phone as if she can’t understand what she’s listening to, but dislikes what she’s hearing anyway. Her eyes pinch shut, an inaudible sigh of frustration passes through her lips as she brings the cigarette back to her mouth, inhaling it like she needs it to live.</p><p>Izaya can barely shake himself away from the reverie of watching her from his current hiding spot, the itch of wanting an instant gratification to see an eventful climax is shushed to a whisper in his ears. It’s the way one can feel something about to happen as the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise, or it’s the way Izaya can feel the sizzle in the air from watching this woman struggle to contain her irritation. Despite the more interesting things that he can jot down and save for later, he can’t deny that her figure is easy on the eyes. She is taller than the average person and a tad bit more curvaceous than most girls he’s known or met through the connections of his current work profession. Not that he is doing anything skeevy, of course.</p><p>Faster than a flick of a knife, the woman stands up with haste and begins to pace a couple of steps away from the bench. The tight grip on her cellphone never loosens nor does her brows ever unfurrow. Everything in her posture screams out frustration and displeasure as she stands there, stiff and unmoving in the middle of the courtyard. And when she does move it is with long, jilted steps that oozes tension. It is fascinating to see, the same way in watching a tiger prowl against her cage with canines bared, daring anything to approach and feel her wrath.</p><p>He watches the way her eyes narrow then soften as she lets out another muted exhale of disappointment while the voice on the other side of the phone continues to talk away. Izaya trails his eyes down her wrist and arm, the sleeves of her bartender uniform are rolled back to the crevice of her elbow. Her other hand raises to comb back her blonde tresses and flyaways that have fallen out of her loose, messy bun. From there he continues to observe the way those loose strands of hair that have fallen out of her bun frames her well-sculpted face. And even if her body seems to soften from the trembling shivers that wrack her frame, there is still the simmering tension within her body that Izaya can sense.</p><p>Then she speaks for the first time.</p><p>“…You promised that you were going to take me out this Saturday.”</p><p>Although her voice is deep and rough, the way she speaks is soft. Breathy and brittle as if she is about to cry despite her furious expression saying otherwise.</p><p>Izaya can’t help himself from piecing all sorts of variables and clichés together to visualize what kind of person she is or could be, based on his observations from afar. If the infamous saying of <em>‘birds of a feather flock together,’ </em>is right more times than it is false, she could be similar to her boring, suburban housewife peers in this particular neighborhood. Maybe she is also the type of girl who doesn’t know how to say ‘no’ to those annoying, bi-weekly salesmen that come to sell utensils and other housewares. Or that she, too, has a workaholic husband that never comes home unless prompted like a dog that refuses to walk on its own. And if they ever share a kiss, it would be in front of friends just for show. But if her husband is the type to have a normal work schedule, he could also be the type to lock himself in his office after dinner and will only come to bed at one in the morning; sometimes pushing two if she is that unlucky in her marriage. And Izaya has a feeling that the woman in front of him has more than her fair share of terrible luck.</p><p>Oh, how tragic and cliché these kinds of romances are, but it is nothing but human in the way that these relationships with their sweet honeymoons would so often end in despair. But he adores it and finds it even more endearing when his presumptions are proven true.</p><p>“You said that last time, Tom. Don’t you remember?” She raises a hand to tuck the loose strands of hair behind her ear. Her down-turned lips change into a disheartened frown after a moment passes. “Yes, you did, Tom! Listen, I’m only trying to talk to you. No, I’m not <em>mad</em> at you… Last week you said that we would be going to that restaurant downtown, remember? But then you canceled because your workmates invited you to a drinking party. Can’t you get this weekend off?”</p><p>She digs the front of her scuffed up heels into the dirt as she paces around the bench. She sits back down, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she struggles to get comfortable. But the more she exudes her frustration, the more obvious that the hitch in her pretty voice crumbles into brittle hoarseness that Izaya finds oddly enough to be quite endearing.</p><p>But the downfall of her tragically endearing qualities is that she is also losing his attention twice as fast with her boring romantic woes. Izaya takes a step back and corners himself into the shadows of the apartment building and shrubbery combined that hide him from view. Slipping his phone out of his pocket, Izaya hisses out a curse as the brightness of his phone blinds him. Lowering the brightness of the screen with a few clicks, Izaya peers down at the time and sighs. He’s been watching this human pace in distress as she struggles to keep her emotions in check for about twenty minutes according to his phone. At this rate, the only thing he’d still have enough time for this late at night is to grab a taxi and get some sushi for dinner.</p><p>With a huff and narrowed eyes, he can’t help but think, <em>‘what an inconvenience.’ </em>His eyes flick up to the woman who has gone back to meandering around the bench as she speaks out weak and half-hearted attempts to persuade whoever is on the other side of the phone. Eyeing her figure, he tucks away the details of her face and all the things that stick out to him in particular. He assumes there isn’t anything particularly striking to remember her by, although there is nothing wrong with that. She is still quite interesting even if her personal problem is boring, mundane, and predictable like any other lover’s quarrel. But the fact that Izaya doesn’t know her name still manages to spark an ember of curiosity in his chest.</p><p>Even though there is a vast amount of people that live in Tokyo, which prevents Izaya from knowing them personally, that isn’t a big enough hurdle to dissuade him from wanting to interact with them. And surely there is something fun he can do with the boring, predictable woman in front of him. From his experience in his profession and interest in humans, the oddest truth seems to be that those who appear to be as plain as a wallflower are usually the ones that prove to be the most dangerous when push comes to shove. Izaya knows more than anyone that these people are the ones who are more likely to hide corpses in their fridge, and sometimes literally if he is lucky enough to come across someone like that. Izaya rolls his shoulder back, hearing the faint crack as he moves while tilting his head backward to look up at the sky that is as black as an olive.</p><p>But for now, he doesn’t mind waiting for the woman to finish her conversation that seems to be nearing its tragic end.</p><p>“—But you promised, Tom.” Her voice has gotten softer, quiet, and tired from a conversation that seems to only run in circles. “We can always schedule to go again next time… Yeah, love you too, and good night.”</p><p>The woman snaps her cellphone shut, gripping it so tight within her fist that Izaya fears that it might shatter. Then with a lightning-quick action that has Izaya stepping back for safety, she struts right up to a nearby trash can and slams into the sides of it with her shoe. He stands there in shock, then with pleasant and giddy surprise as he watches her. She kicks the metal a couple of times more, denting the metal trash can as if it isn’t made of metal but a soft, flimsy cardboard material. Kicking it one last time with only a breath spent after demolishing metal with her kicks, she spits out a few curses as she scampers away from the scene and rounds the corner out of sight. He can hear the clack of her shoes as she ascends a flight of stairs then a quiet slam of a door moments later, signaling that she’s disappeared into her apartment.</p><p>His lips twist into a smile while his eyes are gleaming with mirth. He walks towards the beaten trash can with a spring in his steps.</p><p>
  <em>Now that is fascinating.</em>
</p><p>Another saying that his beloved humans often share is that <em>‘one shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,’</em> and it seems that he has done exactly that tonight. He had thought of this girl as unmemorable and was graciously proven wrong as a reward for his patience. He peers at the dents in the metal, reaching a hand out to touch it and the grin on his face grows wider as he feels the thickness of the metal. Doing something like this is impossible, especially for someone of <em>her</em> size; tall and slender without even an ounce of muscle that he could see on her figure, but she had managed to destroy thick metal with pure strength anyway.</p><p>This is exactly why he loves nights like these. He has accumulated many things of interest the past day, but now he has truly found something that has proven to be worth his time and more. Although it was unexpected, Izaya isn’t one to be stingy in giving his love to the humans that prove themselves worthy in catching his attention.</p><p>Izaya looks back to his phone to examine the time. Even though it is now close to morning, he knows well enough as if it were the back of his hand that one of his favorite restaurants, Russia Sushi, is still open for the night crowd. The owners are never the kind to turn away from easy profits, even more so during the weekends. With time left to spare and a starving kind of greed that knows no bounds, Izaya leaves the scene with a hum and a skip that soon turns into a full out run through the streets. Letting the emotions shake and tremble through his slender build, the feeling of heat and excitement in his gut erupts through him in the form of laughter.</p><p>“Yes!” Izaya laughs as his arms are thrown and outstretched towards the direction of the sky. “Humans are so fascinating, and I love them—love, <em>love, <b>love</b></em> them so much!”</p><p>Red eyes glittering as bright as the city lights, Izaya continues to laugh. Skipping down the street, the thought of grabbing a taxi no longer seems to be a viable option as the bundle of energy in his body refuses to be extinguished. With his fill of gathering information and observing his lovable humans up close and from afar, Izaya can’t wait to watch and see how far his humans will tumble down on the paths they’ve created themselves on the night of the summer solstice.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Half a week has passed since then but he can’t get the thought of <em>her</em> out of his mind.</p><p>It was six in the morning when he decided to go to work, but truth be told that he had been awake for at least two hours prior before he decided to get out of bed. At first, he liked this rush of needed movement that shivered down his core like a twisted coil that begged to be released. Using this high, he was able to take a bath instead of a shower, and brewed his own tea instead of making instant coffee that tasted burnt and inedible. Although information is always circulating, and as one who thrived on being privy in knowing such things, being awake longer than usual didn’t seem like a bad omen since catching new incoming gossip before anyone else was a handsome trade-off from waking up so early.</p><p>But now it is eleven in the morning, closing in to rush time where most employees are granted their short lunch break while high school kids sneak out of school gates to eat at the nearest fast-food diners. He can even imagine some of his favorite teenagers that often cause a ruckus for the underbelly of Ikebukuro to be ditching class by now, sneaking away to the arcades in mock-adult behavior that they’d seen from movies or serial dramas that their mother’s play on the television at home. But no matter what he did, the odd feeling of restlessness paired up with the thoughts of <em>her</em> that never left him alone made him feel strange and—</p><p>“…Orihara-san?”</p><p>Blinking back to the present, Izaya sighs inwardly at how lazy he has become at staying occupied in the present time. He is currently sitting on his black leather couch, legs crossed with his arms languidly thrown across the top and a smile plastered on his face as if he’s been listening when his thoughts have actually wandered somewhere else. Or more like he <em>thought</em> about someone else, even though there is something more important being discussed here. And <em>important</em> meaning that he thought this conversation would capture his attention, but he supposes that it must’ve been rather dull if he was caught red-handed thinking about something else.</p><p>“The strongest man in Ikebukuro, huh?” Izaya asked. “There are a handful of people that I’d believe who are strong in Ikebukuro, but if it has to be men… I suppose the Black Rider would have to be crossed out of my list of recommendations, wouldn’t it?”</p><p>Phrased as a question yet sounding more like a statement, Izaya left no room for his guest—Shuuji Neikawa, a reporter who wrote for the infamous tabloid Tokyo Disaster, which was a popular read among teens and young adults—who sat on the couch opposite of him with noticeable bags under his eyes an unkempt beard stubble to speak.</p><p>“Anyway,” Izaya waves his hands as he stands up to get a pen and a post-it note from his desk, “I know someone who would be able to point you in the right direction with these kinds of questions, but I’d rather you keep quiet if they ask who gave you this contact information, hm?”</p><p>Izaya scrawls out a name with a phone number beneath it before handing it to the bedraggled man, crafting a warm smile on his face as he offers the man another cup of tea only to be refused. The conversation between the two of them dwindles until there is only coldness hanging in the air between them, and in a blink of an eye, the reporter leaves the apartment, and Izaya is left to himself in the spacious living room.</p><p>Izaya stalls with his time, even though something inside of him itches for release; pent-up energy that is bound to explode if he doesn’t find something to do, but everything he does makes it worse. He sits at his desk diving into the internet for information, only to find himself scrolling in and out of group chats that he likes to read for entertainment, such as strange rumors or gossip that only circulated among the sly, energetic youths. Then he turns his attention to finding needed information for one of his many clients to get the jitters out. But he ends up hiring another informant to get their hands dirty for him, ordering them to stake out at a shopping department or who-knows-what for whatever side-job that he signed up for.</p><p>It is only an hour later that Izaya gives in to temptation and allows himself to think about her. He sits back against his chair, adjusting it so that he can lay back, and throws an arm over his eyes like a makeshift blindfold. She is interesting like all his other humans, so it’s hard to pinpoint why this one particular human refuses to leave his mind. Sure, she was easy on the eyes—like all the other women that he’d met over the years—so what made her so different?</p><p>Most of her is lost to the fogginess of his memories as her figure is softened into a blurry haze like a movie in low resolution. The only precise sharpness in his memory of her is the messy blond hair that was tied into a loose bun. The locks of hair that fell in front of her face suggested that she had worked a long day; her disheveled appearance was heightened due to the wrinkles in her bartender uniform. Then there was the constant pacing that she did, noting the swing of her hips when she walked in a short pace as the slit in the back of her pencil skirt didn’t allow a long stride. And following down that path he could only recall that she was wearing sheer black stockings. Or was she wearing pantyhose? He didn’t see any skin, but it wasn’t uncommon for workplaces to have a dress code in wearing stockings…</p><p>Izaya shoots up his chair with a grimace.<em>‘ What am I thinking?!’</em></p><p>The only thing interesting and different about her is that unexpected strength and Izaya isn’t afraid to admit that she could be even stronger than him as he recalled the metal trash can that was dented beyond repair. Since it was only her strength that struck out to him as abnormal, it stood as the only plausible reason why she remained in his thoughts longer than he would have liked. But she also must have not been <em>that</em> interesting to him—or useful since he’d already imagined all the uses that strength could provide him—since he hadn’t even looked her up on the internet yet. But whether she will be useful or fun to use, he is sure that she would still be like all his other humans: lovable and predictable, like all the science experiments that he’d done in high school.</p><p>Despite everything he tells himself, she never leaves his thoughts, and there is nothing he can do but scowl and tap his fingers against the arm-rest of his chair. Annoyance and agitation well up in his chest the longer he stares at the bright screen of his laptop monitor, so he swivels his chair to peer at the busy streets of Shinjuku through his windows. It is still the early afternoon but Izaya is sure that soon enough the sun would bring its blistering, humid heat that would disperse the thick crowd he could see down below. It’s a buzz from his phone that grabs his attention, a grin curling at the edge of his lips as he remembers why he has left the rest of today open. Turning back around on his chair, Izaya picks up the sleek, black cellphone off his desk and clicks the home button to turn it on. He looks at the notification of a new message to see that it is from someone he knows all too well.</p><p>“<em>‘When are you coming over, asshole?’</em> Hah, how rude of him,” Izaya chuckles. He taps in a quick, one-word reply and sends it with a laugh as he looks at the name of the recipient. “But I suppose it would be good to take a break for now…”</p><p>His best friend, Shinra, has been bothering him constantly over the short amount of time that he’s come back from his year-long job in Bunokura, a small sea-side town that is next to Hagane city in the Fukuoka prefecture. With enough whines and bribery, to even calling to hang up on Izaya who was still mid-sentence of refusing to visit, Izaya had given in. Not to catch up on the months they haven’t seen each other but to give Shinra the tongue-lashing of his life for bothering him to this extent when the man could have been lavishing his attention on that beloved roommate of his that he claims to love instead.</p><p>He stands up with a stretch, noting the pops and cracks in his spine as he does so, and ignores the <em>vrrrms</em> from his cellphone that he shoves into his pocket. Scooping up his apartment keys and one of his leather wallets, Izaya can’t help but let his lips split into a wide grin, cackling as he slips on his shoes and leaves his apartment. The door clicks shut, locking itself behind him as he walks down the hallway to the elevator with a skip in his step.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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